


Listening In

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hallboy with fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening In

**Author's Note:**

> For more stories sooner, feel free to follow me at: gigitrek.tumblr.com

Henry could hear them at night.

He knew he wasn’t meant to, of course. He knew that if he breathed a word of it to Mr. Carson, Mr. Barrow and Mr. Kent would be sacked, probably even thrown in prison. Henry didn’t want that. If he ever gathered the courage to speak to Mr. Barrow or Mr. Kent themselves, they would stop, and as Henry lay in bed, his ear pressed to the wall, he found he didn’t want that, either.

Peter was in his bed on the other side of the room, snoring as usual. This bed had been Peter’s, originally, but once Henry realized Mr. Barrow’s room was next door, he had convinced Peter to change over. “I sleep better on my left side,” Henry had said, by way of explanation, “and I like to have my back against the wall.” It was weak, but Peter had said, “I don’t give a toss,” and swapped without complaint.

All Henry had expected to get out of it was a little thrill at the thought of being only a thin wall away from Mr. Barrow, all night long. The other thrill, much greater and very unexpected, came later, a few weeks after Henry moved into his new bed.

At first, there was a voice. It was low, so quiet that Henry wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he hadn’t been pressed into the wall as closely as it was possible to get, bringing himself as near to the sleeping Mr. Barrow as he could. It wasn’t Mr. Barrow’s voice. That, Henry knew by heart. “Well done, my boy,” Mr. Barrow said to Henry once, weeks ago, over some trifling little task. Henry had replayed it in his mind over and over ever since. He hadn’t remembered Henry’s name, Henry knew that from the little hesitation before the generic “my boy.” Henry didn’t care. Mr. Barrow had spoken to him, had called him “my boy”, and that was all that mattered.

The voice in the room was Mr. Kent’s. There were few other people it could be, at this hour in the men’s hall. The voice wasn’t Mr. Nugent’s, or Mr. Carson’s.

There had been some gossip about Mr. Barrow and Mr. Kent, something about Mr. Barrow sneaking into Mr. Kent’s room at night (Henry always thought of this in italics, it was so shocking and scandalous) but that had been before Henry’s time. Not even Peter had been here then, and Peter was seventeen years old and had worked at Downton for nearly two years. All Henry knew about the incident was what he’d heard second- and third-hand, and he didn’t trust rumours. He’d been the subject of enough of them himself at school. He knew they weren’t to be trusted.

He pressed his ear even harder against the wall, until he was nearly part of it, but still, Henry couldn’t make out Mr. Kent’s words. The tone sounded light, teasing. Henry was glad of it. Mr. Kent was all right, normally. He wasn’t particularly kind. He wouldn’t go out of his way to speak to you, or even necessarily speak to you if you were in his way, but he wasn’t cruel. He acted most of the time like other people were a burden, something to be endured in the most courteous way he could manage at any given moment. But sometimes, rarely, Mr. Kent would fly into rages that turned his face red and brought tears to Henry’s eyes, even if he wasn’t the object but only a witness. Then, Mr. Kent would stomp off and Mrs. Patmore would shrug and say something like, “Good heavens, I wonder what’s got into him.”

Once, Peter had mumbled, “It’s what’s not getting into him regular enough, more like,” by way of quiet response. Henry knew this to be a greatly risque remark, even if he didn’t quite understand what it meant. He did know that Mr. Carson, unfortunately passing behind them, was apoplectic over it. Henry had never seen anybody so angry. Not even his father at his drunkest had raged like Mr. Carson, and Henry wept openly. Even Peter had tears in his eyes, although he would never admit it. Afterwards, after Peter had been sent off with three weeks extra work and a forfeited half day, Mr. Carson had come to Henry and said, gently, “I can tell you are a good boy, that you want to succeed.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry did, more than anything. He wanted to be a valet or an under butler like Mr. Barrow one day, elegant and refined. He would never look like Mr. Barrow, unfortunately, but he could aspire to be respected like him.

“Then you would do well not to pay too much mind to the comments of people like Peter.”

“No, sir.”

“Good.” Mr. Carson nodded, as if something momentous had been decided. Henry didn’t exactly know what they were talking about.

He did know that it was Mr. Kent’s voice he heard in Mr. Barrow’s room, at a time of night when everybody was meant to be asleep. Mr. Barrow was there, too. He answered back, something again unintelligible to Henry no matter how hard he strained his ears. Then, Henry heard the sound of kissing.

He knew what it was. He’d grown up in a small house with his parents and two much older, married brothers and their wives. There was no privacy. Henry had heard the conception of his two nieces and his nephew, although he would much have preferred not to. He knew what the gasps and the quiet moans meant when they came from Mr. Barrow’s room. And he knew what it meant when these noises were joined by the sound of a bed creaking softly and rhythmically.

Henry’s face burned. He buried his head beneath his pillow, then brought it out again. The sounds continued. They were quiet, so quiet that Henry could hear them only if he pushed his ear right up against the wall, but if he did that, they were clear, as if he sat in the same room. After a torturous eternity, there was a grunt from Mr. Barrow, and Mr. Kent said, “Mm. Thomas.”

Henry had never heard that tone of voice before, not from Mr. Kent, not from anybody. It was a tone of satisfaction, of complete and utter happiness. It was a tone of love.

Embarrassment and jealousy warred inside Henry. This was the worst of sins. Peter had alluded to the crime obliquely in a joke, and he’d been punished even for that.

It was wrong to even think about it, but Henry couldn’t help himself. He had an idea of sex, but he couldn’t imagine what two men would do together. They could kiss, clearly, but after that, it was a blank. Would they touch each other, the way Henry touched himself beneath the blankets, when he was certain Peter was asleep? Would they touch each other with their mouths, the way Peter claimed a milkmaid had once done to him behind her father’s barn? (Henry highly doubted the truthfulness of that account.) Were there other things that could be done, secrets to which only men like Mr. Barrow and Mr. Kent were privy? Henry didn’t know, and he would never be able to ask anybody, ever. The thought of it made him want to crawl into a hole and die.

But at the same time, Henry longed for somebody like Mr. Barrow to touch him. Mr. Barrow was tall and dark, and Henry knew the girls considered him handsome. Henry considered him handsome, but it was more than that. Mr. Barrow was brave. He’d stayed at the house even when everybody knew about him, and he took such enormous risks to be with Mr. Kent, which meant he must be romantic, as well. Henry knew what that meant, “romantic.” He’d heard all about it from his sisters-in-law. It meant being gallant, doing sweet things for the person you loved, to let her—or him—know he was on your mind. Thomas was gallant, and sweet, and he thought about Mr. Kent a lot. He must. He had sneaked into Mr. Kent’s bedroom, after all.

In the deepest, darkest parts of the night, when the old house creaked and groaned and mice—the existence of which Mr. Carson denied—scuttled behind the wainscoting, Henry imagined what it might be like if Mr. Barrow sneaked into his room. Peter was not present in these imaginings, of course. He’d disappeared from existence and Henry was alone, in his bed. The door opened, inch by inch. The shadow moved in from the hall. Henry held his breath, in reality and in his mind, and Mr. Barrow came inside.

He walked softly, treading lightly so as not to awaken any of the others. He sat on Henry’s bed, and he looked into Henry’s eyes, piercing him with his gaze. He smelled like cigarettes and pomade and something else, that indefinable scent which Mr. Barrow always seemed to bring with him. He said, “Well done, my boy.” And he leaned forward to press his lips to Henry’s.

After that, things were hazy. Henry didn’t mind. The sensation of being in Mr. Barrow’s arms, of having Mr. Barrow choose him, was enough. He’d always been part of a crowd, one of a group, at home and at school and here at Downton Abbey. Mr. Barrow noticed him. To Mr. Barrow, he was somebody. He was Mr. Barrow’s boy. The thought of it filled Henry’s heart and soon enough, Henry filled his hand. It was disgusting, it was shameful, and it brought Henry so much joy, he couldn’t bear to stop.

He couldn’t bear to stop eavesdropping, either, even though doing so damned him alongside Mr. Barrow and Mr. Kent. It was their secret, Mr. Barrow’s and Mr. Kent’s and Henry’s. When Mr. Barrow smiled at Mr. Kent over the breakfast table, when Mr. Kent said, “Nice evening for a walk, Mr. Barrow,” Henry knew what they really meant. He was in on a secret, he was part of a club. He was special, the way Mr. Barrow and, he supposed, Mr. Kent were special. To a boy who had never been special, not ever, it was the kindest gift anybody could offer. It scarcely mattered they didn’t know they were offering it.

So Henry would never stop listening, no matter how wicked it was. Not unless Mr. Barrow and Mr. Kent stopped making the noises at night, and he hoped they never would, for their sake as much as for his own.

And if Peter ever demanded his old bed back, Henry thought, he would threaten to tell Mr. Carson about the naked lady playing cards he’d found beneath the mattress.


End file.
